The silence stretched, thin and fragile. Then, scrabble, scrabble, SQUEAK.
Ah, yes. The rodent. Previously noted, briefly ignored. Apparently, it wasn't taking the hint provided by my profound lack of interest. Typical invasive species behavior. No concept of personal space or respecting the existential ennui of higher beings.
I pinpointed the sound's origin. Behind a precarious stack of clay pots whose structural integrity looked dubious even before considering potential rodent burrowing activities underneath.
Now, the pest control dilemma.
Option A: The Cosmic Solution. Isolate the rodent's unique bio-signature. Target its constituent atoms. Initiate spontaneous disassembly. Quick. Clean. Efficient. Also, carries a non-zero risk of leaving behind trace exotic particles that might attract unwelcome attention from beings who monitor such things. Plus, felt like using a supernova to swat a fly. Overkill. And frankly, required more focus than I currently felt inclined to exert.
Option B: The Primitive Solution. Acquire a trap. Bait it. Wait. Dispose of the result. Involved interacting with the market again (unlikely vendor: 'Purveyor of Slightly Used Vermin Dispatchment Devices'), handling bait (likely cheese of questionable origin), and dealing with the potentially messy aftermath. High effort, low appeal.
Option C: The Annoyed Subconscious Nudge Solution. Focus on the irritation caused by the scrabbling frequency. Subconsciously identify the path of least resistance for the creature leading out of the shop. Maybe subtly enhance the perceived attractiveness of a specific tiny crack under the back door leading to the glorious freedom of the weed patch (and potential encounters with predatory owls, not my problem). Minimal conscious effort. Plausibly deniable outcome. Elegant, in a passive-aggressive, reality-warping sort of way.
Decision made. Option C. I let my annoyance focus, just for a microsecond, on the irritatingly high-pitched squeak and the rhythmic scrabbling. Willed it, non-specifically, to go elsewhere. Preferably somewhere far, far away from my auditory receptors.
The scrabbling paused. Then resumed, moving rapidly towards the back of the shop. A final, triumphant squeak echoed faintly near the ill-fitting back door, then… silence. Problem potentially solved. Or at least, relocated. Good enough. My tolerance for pest control administration was now officially depleted for the foreseeable galactic cycle.
With the rodent situation (hopefully) handled, my attention drifted back to the other lingering irritations. Elara's enthusiastic adoption of the 'Mystic Bob' persona. Borin's penetrating gaze and inconvenient questions. The rumors, undoubtedly spreading through Oakhaven like mould on damp bread.
Protector. Curser. Compost Cult Instigator. Flower Power Enthusiast. Possessor of Junk With Secrets. Silent Guardian. The narrative was fracturing into absurdity. Soon they'd be blaming me for bad weather, sour milk, and unexpected turnip blight.
How to manage this? Ignore it? Hope it faded like the caffeine buzz? That felt increasingly unlikely, especially with Borin sniffing around. Actively counter it? Go door-to-door insisting I was just a grumpy vendor of useless artifacts? The mental image alone was exhausting. Plus, protesting too much often backfired spectacularly, especially with primitive rumour mills.
Maybe… lean into it? Not the magic part, gods forbid. But the 'wise, quiet observer' angle? Occasionally dispense cryptic, utterly useless advice that sounded profound but meant nothing? It might satisfy their craving for mystery without requiring actual effort or revealing anything. "The stream flows downhill, yet the salmon swims up," or some such nonsense. Primitives ate that stuff up. Still felt like work, though. Performative wisdom. Ugh.
Drip.
What fresh hell was this?
Drip.
My gaze tracked the sound upwards. To the ceiling. Specifically, to a patch near the back corner, roughly where the roof met the slightly less decrepit wall. A patch that looked suspiciously damp. Darker than the surrounding grime-coated timbers.
Drip.
A single drop of water detached itself, hung suspended for a fraction of a second, then plummeted downwards, landing with a depressing plink onto a pile of dusty ledgers I hadn't found the motivation to catalogue or incinerate yet.
The leaky roof. Of course. The patch I'd slapped on weeks ago – using mud, straw, and sheer force of will, if memory served – had predictably failed. Because nothing on Aerthos was built to last. Entropy wasn't just a theoretical concept here; it was an active, aggressive participant in daily life.
Drip. Plink.
This couldn't be ignored. Unlike the vague threat of rumour or the relocated rodent, this was an active, physical intrusion. Water damage. Leading to mould. Spores. Potential structural weakening of the already questionable roof beams. And, most immediately irritatingly, the relentless drip, drip, drip threatening to erode what little remained of my composure.
Fine. Manual labour. The ultimate indignity. Repairing shoddy primitive construction using equally shoddy primitive methods. My retirement truly was a bottomless font of joy.
First, locate tools. My "toolbox" consisted of a warped wooden crate containing: a rusty hammer with a loose head, three bent nails of different sizes, a chisel that might once have been sharp in a previous geological era, and a handsaw missing several teeth. Peak Aerthosian engineering standards.
Next, materials. What could I use for a patch? More mud and straw? Seemed doomed to repeat the cycle of failure. Scanning the shop's inventory of junk, my eyes landed on a piece of sheet metal, thin and bent, possibly part of a discarded shield or a very unsuccessful attempt at roofing material by a previous occupant. Rusty, naturally. But solid. Ish.
Carrying the "tools" and the sheet metal towards the offending leak felt like preparing for ritual sacrifice. My own dignity was the offering.
The ledgers needed moving. I shoved them aside with my foot, sending up a cloud of dust and disturbed silverfish. The floor beneath the drip was already damp. Excellent.
Now, the challenge: Reaching the leak. The ceiling wasn't that high, but required either standing on something unstable or levitating. Levitation was out – too obvious, violated Rule #1 (Don't Attract Attention). Which meant finding something to stand on.
The three-legged stool? Suicidal. A stack of crates? Likely infested with things that bite or bore. A slightly more solid-looking chest in the corner? Locked, probably contained more junk, but looked… stable enough? Maybe?
Dragging the heavy chest over required actual physical exertion. Grunting was involved. Unbecoming for a former cosmic entity, but necessary. Positioned under the leak, it provided a precarious platform.
Armed with the hammer (head wobbling ominously), the bent nails, and the rusty piece of tin, I climbed onto the chest. Wobbled. Stabilized. Looked up at the damp patch.
Shoddy work. Truly abysmal. The original patch hadn't even properly covered the hole in the thatch and rotten wood beneath. Water was finding its way through capillary action along a degraded beam. Basic structural failure due to incompetence and cheap materials. Typical.
Positioning the tin sheet over the area was awkward. Hammering the bent nails through the rusty tin into the damp, probably rotten wood required several attempts, much cursing (internal), and a near-miss where the hammer head almost detached and brained me. The universe really did have a sense of humour. A sadistic, slapstick sense of humour.
Bang. Bang. Thunk. The sound echoed unnaturally loudly in the shop.
Finally, the patch was… attached. Loosely. Crookedly. Probably creating new stress points that would fail later. But for now, it covered the hole. The dripping stopped.
A moment of silence. A moment where I could almost feel… satisfaction? No. Not satisfaction. Just the cessation of an active annoyance. Like pulling a thorn from one's paw. Relief, perhaps. Minimal, grudging relief.
KNOCK. KNOCK. WHUMP.
The sound wasn't just a knock; it felt like someone had collided bodily with the door. Followed by frantic, less coordinated rapping.
I froze mid-climb-down, perched precariously on the chest. What fresh catastrophe now? Goblin resurgence? Dragon attack? Aggressive turnip salesman?
With a sigh that could freeze helium, I carefully navigated off the chest and shuffled to the door. Pulled it open.
Mayor Grumbleson almost fell inside. He was red-faced, sweating profusely (more than usual), and clutching his mayoral chain of office like a flotation device.
"Bob! Thank the spirits! You're here!" he gasped, wheezing for air.
"Usually am," I stated drily. "In my shop. Where I ostensibly live."
"Yes! Yes, of course! But Bob…" Grumbleson lowered his voice, glancing nervously back towards the village square, "The talk, Bob! It's getting out of hand!"
Ah. The rumours. Arriving directly at my doorstep via panicked bureaucracy. Splendid.
"Gossip," I grunted, turning back towards the interior, hoping he'd take the hint. He didn't.
He scurried inside, wringing his hands. "It's not just gossip! Hemlock is telling everyone you cursed his compost heap into attracting goblins! Then blessed it to repel them! He's confused, Bob, deeply confused! And young Elara is telling everyone you have… ancient wisdom! Speaks in metaphors! About pigs and bruised apples!"
My minimal effort suggestions, twisted into arcane pronouncements. Predictable.
"And Borin!" Grumbleson leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He thinks you're… well, he won't say what he thinks! Just looks thoughtful! Which is worse! And now that adventurer lad is back, asking Borin if you sent him on a quest to forge a legendary goblin-repelling horseshoe!"
A legendary goblin-repelling horseshoe. The sheer, multilayered idiocy was almost impressive. From fixing a loose pauldron to that. Human imagination, when applied to rumour-mongering, was a force more potent than many controlled singularities I'd encountered.
"Bob," Grumbleson pleaded, "the village council is in an uproar! Some want to declare you Village Protector! Others want to… well, test you. For witchcraft!" He shuddered. "We need… guidance! Your wisdom! What should we do?"
He looked at me expectantly, eyes wide with desperation. Waiting for a solution. A pronouncement. Something.
My gaze drifted upwards towards the newly installed, ugly, rusty patch on my ceiling. Fixed one leak, only to have the floodgates of village stupidity burst open downstairs.
I looked back at Grumbleson. At his panicked expression. At the faint damp patch spreading on the floor from where the ledgers had been. At the general, overwhelming tide of annoyance rising within me.
"Tell them," I said, my voice flat and utterly devoid of wisdom, "I'm busy. Fixing the roof."
I gestured vaguely upwards with the loose-headed hammer I still held.
Grumbleson's eyes followed my gesture. He blinked. Looked at the hammer. Looked at the patch. Looked back at me. A slow dawning of horrified misunderstanding spread across his face.
"Ah!" he breathed. "I see! Performing… essential structural enchantments! Warding off... atmospheric intrusions! Of course! Profound work! Vital! Shouldn't have disturbed you!"
He began backing away rapidly, bowing slightly. "Yes! Busy! Very busy! Important work! I'll tell the council! You're... addressing the foundations! Metaphorically! Understood!"
He practically tripped over his own feet escaping the shop, pulling the door shut with unnecessary force.
Leaving me alone. Once again. With the silence, the dust, the faint smell of rust and damp wood, and the lingering psychic residue of concentrated bureaucratic panic.
I looked at the hammer. Looked at the roof patch.
Structural enchantments. Right. If only it were that simple. Fixing reality was easy compared to fixing rampant human stupidity.
The tea was definitely cold now. And the headache was back. Retirement continued to exceed all expectations. Just… not in the way I'd hoped.